


A Study In Comfort

by Writingwife83



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writingwife83/pseuds/Writingwife83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a bit lost when it comes to dealing with other people's emotions. When he's forced to deliver some sad news to a client, he turns to Molly for help in that department...but he might just end up learning a bit himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from a very sweet Tumblr follower of mine, Samageo. She requested something along the lines of grief and comfort, and I was really honored that she had wanted me to do this. Hope the rest of you enjoy this too. :)

NEED YOUR HELP. NO ONE ELSE AVAILABLE. WILL YOU COME TO BAKER STREET? -SH

Molly didn't often see a direct plea for help, so she was quick to reply.

I'LL BE OVER IN A FEW. THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT, IT IS MY DAY OFF. :) -MH

Molly arrived and found Sherlock pacing around his flat. Lestrade was just heading out the door.

"Oh, Molly, glad you're here. Help him out; I don't think he can handle this one on his own." Lestrade gave her a pat on the arm and a sympathetic smile.

She approached him slowly. "Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Ah, Molly! Look, I've just closed a case, and the family is going to be arriving here any minute. Usually I have John here at my disposal, but he's a bit busy. Mary might not be far from delivering and isn't feeling well. Lestrade had a break in across town and can't stay."

Molly looked around in confusion. "You um...need my help to close the case."

Sherlock looked at her seriously. "I'm afraid the results are not what the family was hoping for. Let us say that they will be taking a trip to the morgue after they leave here."

"Oh no," she breathed out. "Well, tell me quickly, what happened?"

"A woman in her sixties came to me a few days ago with her daughter and told me that her husband was missing. He was ill, had a tumor in his brain. They knew he wasn't going to make it, and chose to bring him home...till the end. Unfortunately one of the side effects of his illness involved being mentally altered. He wandered off, and that's why they came to me in order to find him. I did find him." Sherlock's expression was grim.

Molly looked almost physically ill. "And now you have to tell them."

He nodded. "This is not really...my area. I usually have someone else here to help me. Surely nobody wants to hear such news from me alone."

She understood. He was aware of how badly he tended to do in sentimental circumstances. He didn't deal well with other people's emotions, and if anything he may make it worse.

"Don't worry," Molly said with as confident a smile as she could muster. "I'll help you."

Ten minutes later, the already teary eyed woman and her daughter, who seemed about Molly's age, were sitting on Sherlock's sofa.

"It's bad news, isn't it?" the young woman had the courage to ask. Her mother grasped her hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm afraid so. I found him in Kensington Gardens. There was a park bench, rather out of the way near a willow tree-"

"Oh, my God! The park bench!" The younger woman began to sob.

Molly had already sat down on the sofa next to her and she put her arm around the woman's shoulder.

"You know where he's talking about?" Molly asked gently.

The woman nodded as the tears poured down. "He used to take me there, ever since I could walk. We'd have a little picnic and we'd play with a ball or fly a kite."

"He loved doing that with you," her mother said, wiping at her own eyes. "It meant the world to him, those times with you."

Molly felt her own eyes begin to sting, and wondered how much use she would be if she were to break down as well.

"As I got older," the younger woman went on. "We didn't go as often. But we would meet there sometimes, and he would bring coffee. Instead of playing games, we would just sit and talk. Usually I was on my lunch break...I can't believe he went there!"

"He may have been confused at the end," Molly said, rubbing the woman's back lightly. "But you see, he still wanted to be close you. I know it's difficult...when you're not there when it happens. But you can know how much he loved you. And surely his final thoughts were of those he loved most. No disease can wipe out something that powerful." She smiled at both the women.

Sherlock stood by at a little distance, watching cautiously, not wanting to say anything. He was uncomfortable with all the crying and emotion. He was in awe that Molly could jump into this scenario and provide easy comfort to these perfect strangers. He would never have known what to say or do. It was a skill that he knew he would never possess.

"Can we see him?" the older woman asked tearfully.

"I have already called a cab for you, and the fare has been taken care of. Bart's hospital is expecting you," Sherlock answered with a little nod.

The two women stood and they shook Sherlock's hand. Molly gave both women warm hugs before they left. Once they were out the door, Molly went directly to the window and looked down on the street. Sherlock heard the cab drive away, but he noticed that Molly remained at the window. He heard a sniffle.

Sherlock came up behind her slowly. "Molly?"

"I'm ok," she said, but he saw her reach up and wipe at her eyes. "Sorry, I know you were trying to avoid emotion. I'm sure you didn't want me to come over and leave a trail of my own tears!" She let out a short laugh.

He didn't really imagine that asking her to do this would trigger how own distress, though perhaps he should have. To him Molly was a tower of strength which could be toppled by nothing. But he realized that at a moment like this, she had been forced to think of her own loss.

"Molly, you said something," he began slowly. "You said you knew it was difficult to not be there when it happens...did your father die without you there?"

Molly nodded her head without turning and she wiped at her eyes again. "I um, I just missed it. I had been there all night with him. I finally left to take a shower...they begged me to take some times for myself...I'd barely been back home for an hour. They called and said he was gone."

Sherlock hated feeling emotion even more than having to deal with it in others. And right now, he was being hit with an uncomfortable wave of it.

"Molly, I'm...sorry I asked you to..." he began with difficulty.

She turned, eyes still very wet and red, but shook her head. "No, no, don't be sorry. I'm not. It doesn't hurt any worse to have the feelings come back up again. They're in me anyway. To me, every time they bubble up like this, there's a little less hurt that's left inside. Why not get rid of a bit more of that? And what better way than by giving a bit of comfort to someone else?"

Sherlock could only stare down at her, unsure of what to say...afraid of what to do. He was still sure he would only make things worse. As usual, Molly understood that.

"You don't have to be afraid you know. It feels nice, to help someone who's grieving. Just takes practice, that's all." Another tear rolled down her cheek. She smiled up at him as she wiped it away. She understood that he was at a loss, and didn't expect anything from him. It was enough that he'd even bothered to ask about her father. She smiled one more time and began to walk past him.

Before she even had time to realize what was happening, Sherlock put his arm out and stopped her in his path. He gently turned her back to face him...and wrapped his arms around her.

Molly's damp cheek collided gently with his firm chest and she responded instinctively, wrapping her arms around his torso. The hug wasn't overly cuddly. His body certainly didn't conform to hers in the way that a warm hug usually consisted of, but he was being genuine. She knew that for certain by how firmly his fingers curled around her back and shoulders. This brought a new flood of tears, and Molly was afraid she was going to soak this shirt that likely cost more than every bit of clothing she was wearing.

"Are you all right?" he whispered in that deep, and surprisingly comforting, baritone.

Molly sniffed a little and then had to smile. As she tightened her grasp around his waist, she whispered into his shirt,

"Not your area indeed."


End file.
